


Darkness Before Dawn

by Iscalta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Take your nihilistic ending and shove it, Turns out the Three Eyed Raven is good for something!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:26:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iscalta/pseuds/Iscalta
Summary: You know what they say. To touch the light...This story serves as a direct followup to That Scene in the finale and a prequel to Dawn Court.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Darkness Before Dawn

**King of the Ashes**

He held her for an eternity. For the briefest of moments, for a breath against eternity, he had been happy, and so had she. He saw how she looked at him when he dismounted after his first time flying. Then how she looked at the waterfall… _she fell in love with the North in her way,_ he thought. Once he took her in his arms, had her against him- he had been more than happy, he had been _whole._ He looked into her purple eyes, glassy as patches of ice. _Ice at last,_ he thought, as the sound of great wings heralded the arrival of her last remaining son. He had gone beyond grief or panic, and felt instead an utter calm. Tears streaked down his face as he very slowly closed his true love’s eyes. Had they come all this way for this? To Essos and back, to the very Land of Always Winter and back- just to burst into flame or freeze into unfeeling ice? Jon gave a sob then, uncaring whether or not Drogon sent him after her into oblivion. Looking into the dragon’s scarlet eyes, Jon Snow made no effort to hide what had been done. What _he’d_ done. The knife stuck out of her dainty body like an arrow out of a dead swan. Drogon bent his massive head down, his snout brushing against her side. The sound that came from the great mouth then was part agony, part grief- and it partially broke Jon out of his fugue. He stood with purpose, unwilling to let her go.

“I think…I’d like to stop now, boy.” he said quietly, as a shuffling could be heard from the entrance to the throne room. Ignoring it, he carried her to the Iron Throne- _his_ throne, though he could not have wanted anything less, including a good knifing through his own heart. He brought himself down, slowly, shaking, and leaned back against the metal. So many had died for this. Houses hundreds of years old lie in ashes, untold common folk had gone to the beyond, for a handful of people fighting over the right to sit where Jon sat. To claim overlordship of the Seven Kingdoms. We can break the wheel together. Her face had been so hopeful, her eyes bright with love for him. While he could feel the heat emanating from the stones, taste the dust falling from the sky…smell the burned flesh of a people turned to ash.

 _My duty is to guard the realms of men. To fight for the living,_ he thought. Then he remembered his birth name. _Aemon Targaryen. The last dragon._ He shut his eyes. What would Maester Aemon have thought, seeing them like this? Duty is the death of love, Tyrion had said- but the realm would not be safe so long as a Targaryen lived, drew breath. So long as someone existed who could get atop a dragon‘s back and lay waste to his (or her) own countrymen…Jon‘s duty had yet to be done. He could not, could never… but what about a son of his? Or a daughter? Or their children, or theirs? Would they see the beauty of the land beyond the wall, be content with their feet on the ground, among their fellow men and women? Not all of them. _Another Daenerys will come, another Dragon,_ he thought. Duty is the death of love. _But Daenerys is dead,_ he wondered. What could be his duty now… and then his grey eyes widened. His love was dead, but he was not. Drogon’s eyes never left the pair as Jon realized what last great terrible duty lay before him. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men.“ he said, as people began to filter into the throne room.

“Protector of the Realm, even if I must protect them from my own blood, from my very self.” he said, as voices began to sound. Irrelevant noises compared to what would soon be- and what would never be again. Drogon slowly reared, as if sensing what was coming. The King took a long breath, his cheek against hers, cradling her. _“Dracarys.“_ he whispered, the word echoing off the stones of a room that had seen three hundred years of bloodshed for the thing on which he sat. The air of the room was stolen as the furnace built in Drogon’s chest. His teeth parted, jaws wide. Jon felt a sharp pain on his cheek, and for an instant thought he had been hit- then realized that snow had joined the falling ashes. An unholy joining midwived in unending grief and suckled on unimaginable loss. _If only we could be more than this,_ he wondered, hearing someone wail his name. He looked down as he brought her lips to his- black dragonfire surging at his face. _You more than ash…and I more than Snow._

**Arya**

Arya Stark stepped over the corpse of the Master of War, the dagger that had killed the Night King buried in his throat. She didn’t know where she was going, or why, but when she heard the dragon descend in the throne room, she gasped. A man’s voice- one she’d know anywhere, one that made her heart beat double. _Jon._ Her brother, and names be damned. Her dear half-brother turned cousin…and if she was being utterly honest with herself, her heart’s deepest desire. _He had been the only one,_ she remembered. The only one when they were children, who loved her as much as he could anyone. Not Sansa, full of empty politeness, who could not see the beauty beneath the Snow. Her mother, who would sooner see Jon dead than happy. Robb had been his friend, of sorts, but one was inheriting Winterfell, the other had only his sword arm, his sharp eyes…and her. Bran and Rickon were babies or not yet born. Horseface, they all called her. Until she’d gone to him one night, crying- and he promptly dubbed her Arya Underfoot. Perhaps she’d fallen in love with him then, or maybe she’d always been. When she saw him with _her,_ riding up to Winterfell looking every inch King in the North, she knew she’d never get her chance. This silver stranger, with hair in a ridiculous braid too impractical even for Sansa to consider, had simply marched into their lives with her armies, her Southron advisers and her dragons and made herself mistress of all that was theirs. 

“You had no right.” she whispered aloud. “No right to any of it. To the North, to Winterfell… or to Jon.” Then of course, had come the unthinkable- Jon was not her bastard brother after all- he had been Aemon I, titles and all, his entire life. Since his first breath. Her royal cousin. Bran had known already, while Sansa simply stared. Father hadn‘t dishonored Mother after all- not that Arya cared about her mother‘s feelings much anymore. “Had Mother known, she’d have nagged Father to marry you to Sansa day in and out.” she said as she neared the throne room. “She threw you away. The future made flesh, a Winter Rose about to bloom, because she could not find it in herself to love the child of another woman.” When Arya reached the threshold, she saw the dragon rear up. Saw Jon on the Iron throne, an incredible sight- with the Queen in his arms, a knife buried in her breast. _Oh, no…_ she realized. Before she could speak, the fire had come. She couldn’t help it- she ran to him then. _“JON!!!”_ she wailed, only to be forced onto her back from the blast, the heat.

It was the blacksmith who found her, gently brushed her face off, helped her to her feet. 

“Gently, my lady.” he said, trying to stop her from rising too quickly. As soon as she regained her senses, she whirled on the throne- and saw only a molten puddle of glowing iron. Of the dragon, Dragon Queen and Jon, there was no trace. _No,_ she thought. _No, no no no…_ she staggered forward, falling to her knees halfway to the flowing puddle. Her breaths quickening with every second, she put her hands to her temples and tried to focus on something, anything. It could not have happened. Even if she was no longer the world, no longer anything to him, he was still the world, was _everything_ to her. Her fingers covered her eyes as she started to sob, weeping openly, the assassin’s mask shed. A hand closed around her shoulder, but she recoiled as if it were the bony claw of a wight. _He’s gone… gone, and I’m still here. For what,_ she thought. Bastard or King, it made no difference to Arya Stark. The man she loved more than life itself had gone from life, gone into the waiting arms of his Queen. Would she curse at him, rage at him? Or do as Arya would have done given the chance, dash at him and leap into his arms and never mind the rest? 

“Every time a Stark finds peace, a Targaryen arrives to snatch it away and snap it over their pretty knee.” Arya said dully, and the person who touched her sat down next to her.

“And every time a Baratheon loves a Stark…a Targaryen arrives to snatch them away.” he replied. Arya looked and saw Gendry Baratheon sitting in the dust and rubble, staring at the darkening mess of glowing slag. _Where did he come from,_ she wondered. His splendid new black and gold raiment were going grey with the ashes of the people his father ruled. “The Hound told me what you were about before you two snuck off. Figured you could use looking after in case he went, I s‘pose.” He said, lips pursing in a pensive frown.  
  
“I’m sorry I could not love you as well as you deserve.” she said finally, sniffling. He casually tore the sleeve off a fallen body and held it out to her.

“Ah, that’s alright. At least I know now how my bloody father felt.” he replied. Arya hiccupped, approaching a giggle, despite herself. As the fire spread to the fallen decorum, Gendry spoke again. “What say you and I get out of here?” he asked. “You missed it- people are leaving this bloody death-pit of a city in droves. I expect that no one will bother to put out this fire until the place is flat as Hot Pie’s plate after dessert.” Arya giggled for true this time. Hot Pie, her common baker friend. Who never had a grander plan than his next dish. When Gendry got up, he gently (far more so than even she expected) picked her up, carrying her away from the flames that were consuming the Red Keep- and from the cooling metal that for three hundred years had been eating away at, and had now finally consumed, House Targaryen.

**Tyrion**

At first, he thought the two had been lost to crumbing stones or a collapsed floor. When he saw Robert’s bastard striding out with the Stark girl in her arms, Tyrion Lannister almost pissed himself in relief. They had lost everything- truly, everything. He’d heard the dragon’s scream and knew Jon had done what had to be done, but when Ser Davos had turned up outside his cell and picked the lock, he realized that danger was still near. By the time they had gotten out of the Keep, the fire had spread up to the very parapets. _This city is burning,_ he saw. And it will continue to burn until it’s as gone as the family that built it. Once Sansa’s sister and the newly-minted Baratheon had been accounted for, Tyrion joined the others on the docks. In only a few minutes, stock had been taken. Of the armies that had converged on King’s Landing in Daenerys Targaryen’s name not days beforehand, only a broken few had seen fit to remain together. All the others had been lost in the wildfires or scattered to the eight winds. Tyrion counted himself, the Stark girl, Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, and a lucky few others who were going to be heading north. Before they did, though, they watched as the fire spread, setting off what wildfire the Queen’s fury had not. It caused him great anguish to think of her as… _then I’ll not think of her._ _She has Jon Snow to look after her now. Him, her loyal Naathi, and the two dragons,_ he decided. The pressing point now was to decide just what the fuck they were going to do moving forward. No doubt those not present would want an explanation, Greyjoy and Arryn and the Dornish Prince, whoever he was. 

“Well, we really fucked this up.” he said finally, as the city began to sink into its own sewer system under the weight of all the rubble. “We came here with a King, a Queen, her dearest friends, two dragons, three armies…and we’re leaving with just about nothing.” he said almost casually. Davos Seaworth stepped up beside him.

“Now you know how I felt after the Blackwater.” he said, pursing his lips and almost shrugging. As if to say _‘what else were you expecting? A happy ending?’_

“I suppose there will be a bit of tension once we reach Winterfell. No doubt Sansa will quite inquire as to how we managed to lose the Queen to…well, how we managed to lose the Queen and the King to despair.” Tyrion finally broached the topic.

“All I can say is, I don’t think anyone on board is very sad to see the Landing go, after what’s been done.” Davos replied.

The voyage originally had no real destination. Eventually, they decided on Cape Wrath, to pick up Ser Davos’ wife.

“It isn’t like I’ll live to come back south again. I’d rather have her with me when death finally comes calling.“ he had explained. When they reached the place proper, Tyrion was surprised to see the woman Davos was married to- she looked exactly like the image of an innkeeper- an utterly common face (not that Tyrion could cajole about a woman’s looks) round doughy body, and a face that lit up in shock as her husband slowly made his way up the hill. She ran to him, faster than Tyrion would have ever thought possible, wrapping him in a hug as Davos brought his mouth to hers. Tyrion turned pointedly to let them have their moment, Arya Stark and Gendry talking about something or other as they looked to the blue waters. White Harbor and then the road to Winterfell. The first night on the sea, he didn‘t sleep despite how tired he was. Sleep gave Tyrion nightmares aplenty before this last catastrophic failure. _Jaime and Cersei are gone,_ he thought. He’d never expected to be the last of the three- let alone the last of House Lannister. He had been filled with rage of late whenever he thought of Cersei, but seeing her there, eyes staring up at the ceiling, body crushed beneath the bricks…he sat and sobbed. When he’d gone up to the Queen then, his hate had burned out, filled instead with base despair. Seeing her standing there, Queen of the Ashes… we lost, he knew then. It would have been kinder for all if Drogon had been the one shot out of the sky. _Jon would have his green, have the claim, and we could begin anew._ But when had the gods ever been so monumentally accommodating? Just to stick a last knife in, they’d left him the last Lannister. All of a sudden, a thought crossed his mind as he pondered his dead siblings. He began to laugh- not a slow, bitter chortle, but an almost hysterical wild cackle.

"Oh gods, what is it now?” he heard someone, probably Gendry, call from their cabin. _The gods heard my prayer after all, he thought as he roared with laughter. I am, at last, the tallest Lannister._

**Davos**

He thought he’d be alright. He really did- he thought that considering the last few days, Davos Seaworth would manage the best of those who were heading north. His lady wife knew better. She sat down next to him on the bed and lay her head on his shoulder.

“You’re not alright, my love.” she said in her calm, comforting voice. He thought he’d misheard her.

“What?” he asked, more confused than anything.

“We’re on a ship sailing north on a river of tears, blown by searing smoke and ash. I can hear the dwarf crying at nearly any hour. You needn’t put on a brave face for me- I know when you’re hurting.” He’d honestly meant to assure her then, that he was just tired and weary and covered in ash, was all. What came out of his mouth was a sound that made her eyes go wide, her lips part. His face went to her bosom then, and Davos Seaworth cried as he never had before. He could feel her hands go up his back, trying to comfort him, heard her whisper sweetness in his ear, but he couldn’t stop himself. It wasn’t like the Blackwater, where they had simply lost. This was so much worse- they had _won,_ for fuck’s sake they had won- and somehow it had all gone up in black fire. He thought of Shireen then, a cityful of little girls like Shireen, of scallywags like Salladhor Saan, of hopeful, adventurous lads like Matthos, of all those he’d known in his long life. It was nearly an hour before he finally took a breath, sitting upright, his grief running down Marya’s front in terrible dark stains. Her face was kind, but so sad. To see the man she married, the man whose sons she’d borne, in such a state. 

“I need some air, I think. And a drink or a hundred.” he decided finally, swaying as he got to his feet. “If I’ve got a kernel of luck left, there will be a barrel of something strong in the hold.” Reaching the cargo space, Davos Seaworth let out a sigh. _At last, good fortune,_ he thought. Three barrels of Arbor gold.

When he got topside, he saw the others watching the sunrise.

“Rough night?” Tyrion asked, leaning up against the mast in a sitting position. Gendry and the Stark girl were together as usual. She was in his lap, her head to his chest. One of the Essosi freedmen had taken charge of steering their little ship of grief, a Meerenese who introduced himself as Zhaffar Toliz. At the present, he seemed deep in conversation with a young Dothraki, muttering to each other. They have grief all their own. _They crossed a world with her, only to see how it all ended,_ Davos realized.

“Friends.” he called to them then. “Come down, scale of the dragon that burned you.”

“Oh, that was just in _horrible_ taste. Is that Arbor gold? Yes _please._ ” Tyrion said, getting up at once and waddling over. Chairs were provided (barrels, but no matter) and the survivors slowly formed a circle around the mast.

“I’m sorry, I have no ear for accents and even less for names that take more than a breath to say. What’s your friend’s name?” Davos asked Zhaffar.

“I Malakko.” the Dothraki responded, looking at him.

“You speak the-” Gendry started, but the horse lord interrupted him.

“I hear it, I learn. Words the Dothraki do not have. _Shield. Wight. Throne._ I know them now, but wish I do not.”

“Can hardly blame you there…” Tyrion said, filling a cup and handing it to him. On closer inspection, Davos could see this Malakko was no older than eighteen or nineteen. He drained it with a single gulp.

“Good wine.” he said. “Another.” the cup was refilled and he took another gulp.

“Well, Malakko…if I can ask, what is your plan going forth? What will you do with the rest of your life?” Davos asked. The Dothraki was silent for a long time. He did not answer until the sun had well and truly risen.

“Malakko father and brothers die at Wolf Stone House. Castle. I go there. Stay, or die. Mal- I want to be with the others. The other Dothraki. If I go too far, I will not find them when I die. So I will go where they have died, where I think they wait for me to join them.” He gulped another cup. “We should have never left. Khaleesi had her White Wolf then. Green dragon was hurt anyhow, and the Horde was down to a few bleeding boys. We should have stayed, should have lived in the Land of Wolves until our bones were grey.”

“Hear, hear.” Gendry raised his cup to Malakko’s words. _This one is not so thoughtless as others of his kind,_ Davos realized. _He’d have made a fine knight, or at least a man at arms._

“What will Sunset people do?” Malakko asked then. “There is nowhere else to go, no Khaleesi to follow or White Wolf to fight alongside.”

“Let’s get to Winterfell first, let the others know the gravity of the situation.” Tyrion said, hand on the horse lord’s knee.

**Arya**

By the time they reached White Harbor, the Arbor gold had gone. They were drinking water and eating fish when their boat finally touched the docks. Disembarking, Arya found herself face to face with a dozen men with the merman of Manderly on their breasts. They looked reluctant to admit the ragtag group, but Arya had had enough of guards telling her no.

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell- the sister of Lord Manderly’s liege lord, Brandon Stark. You will allow my companions and I to pass, or I’ll send you each home short an ear.” she said heatedly. They parted reluctantly, and the group made their way to the Merman’s Court, where the immensely fat Lord Manderly sat and heard Lord Tyrion and Davos Seaworth out. 

“It turns out I did not know my sister as well as I should have. She’d planted wildfire everywhere. By the time we realized what was going on…” Tyrion trailed off.

“The city had gone up. The King in the North, the Dragon Queen… her black flew off, we think, nobody saw if he made it out or not. To be honest, we weren’t exactly watching the skies, more running for our lives.” Gendry gestured to his face, all their ashen faces and stained, soiled clothes.

“Gods be good…” Lord Wyman said. Arya tried to be mad, tried to find her old anger. _They are making her a martyr,_ she realized. _Jon too,_ another part of her said. A part she hadn’t heard from since before her father died- and it spoke with a voice that sounded like a combination of Eddard Stark and King Aemon I. _There has been enough death, enough hatred from you, Arya Stark. Go home with the Bull. Let those gone be gone in peace._

Wyman insisted on a sort of feast to commemorate those fallen to Cersei Lannister’s last tyrannical act. Once everyone had had a bath and a new outfitting, Arya found herself in a gray dress.

“Apologies, milady, but we haven’t got the sort of garb you’re used to.” her maid said blushingly.

“Don’t worry about it. Thank you.” Arya replied woodenly, making her way to the dining hall. Everyone else was wearing gray as well, even the Dothraki who seemed unsure about having his chest covered. _He’s cut his braid and trimmed his beard,_ she saw. Manderly’s elder granddaughter Wynafryd was looking at him with a deal of appreciation from her grandfather’s side. _Bit late to cross between camps now, Wynny._ Arya thought bitterly. _Maybe next time._ She didn’t look up for what seemed a solid hour. The court of White Harbor seemed to sense that the party heading for Winterfell was not to be disturbed with inquiries, but Arya could hear the whispers. 

“Gods, the Lannister woman must have planned it from the start. Destroyed the last dragons with a finger snap.”

“Just awful, half a million people up in smoke…” the group said nothing in response, as if they’d decided it was better to let this truth be _the_ truth. Besides that, Arya realized she was starving for the first time in what seemed days- she ate voraciously to make up for the nibbling of her compatriots. What would Sansa say when she saw them arriving, so few, the least of those who’d gone south? At least she’ll learn the Dragon Queen had the realm at heart all along. The thought of putting one over on her sister made her smirk sadly. But then, how had Tyrion found out about Jon in the first place? There was an awe on his face whenever he spoke of him since the trip south- he knew, he had to know. Who else would have told him but Sansa? Typical Sansa. Tell her the most important secret in the history of House Stark, and in twenty minutes she blabs, and to a _Lannister_ at that. Had _everyone_ fucked up? She stared at her reflection in a spoon. _I could have gone to her. I should have. Shown her a friendly northern face. Gods know I know how it feels to get the cold shoulder from Sansa._ A nudge from the Meerenese made her come back to the present. He pointed inconspicuously at Gendry, who was getting a lot of looks from the White Harbor women. _Oh, I don’t fucking think so._ Arya briskly stepped around the table and simply sat in his lap.

**Tyrion**

After the Long Night, Tyrion had thought he’d never live to get drunker. _It turns out ignominious defeat leaves a drier throat than the grandest victory,_ he discovered wryly. He drank anything they put in front of him. Gold, red, white, if it could make him stop hurting, Tyrion Lannister would have drunk boiling dragon blood. _At least we saved their memory. The last dragons, come to save the realm from the enemy to the north and the one to the south, even at the cost of their own lives._ Who could speak against them? Those who lived to flee the city were heading to all corners of the realm, of the world. They were getting out of Westeros. The armies that stood to hear her talk on the steps of the Keep had gone up when the square exploded- they’d seen from the ship. He wondered if any Unsullied had made it out at all, and what their possible goal could be now. Hopefully Grey Worm had told them something. Not that a few cockless soldiers were really anything to worry about. A dwarf, an assassin, a blacksmith and a smuggler could hardly be expected to draw the same loyalty as the royal couple could. If only they’d lived to BE a couple. Davos was right, Tyrion mused. Had they waited, just _waited,_ for Jon to gather himself, maybe with some prodding…who knew. Maybe the journey south would have included a Prince Rhaegar on the way. Maybe Rhaegal could have laid eggs. Anything was possible then. Nothing was possible now.

By the time the feast had concluded and the inhabitants of White Harbor had begun to leave the hall, the Imp could neither talk nor stand. Faces had become doughy whorls of color and his eyes twitched with supreme drunkenness. _How could I not have beaten Cersei? How could I not have thought it through?_ he thought to himself. _Because you refused to see her for what she was, Imp. She would have died before she gave up that chair- and take as many with her as possible._ He supposed she’d won after all. House Targaryen was well and truly finished this time, the last dragon gone to unknown lands far from Westeros. _We’ll have to find out where he’s gone at some point- We can’t have a dragon buzzing about without a care. Unless he’s gone to ground in Valyria, he could be anywhere._ Somehow the dwarf could not see Drogon simply languishing in the ruins that had once been both heart and mind of the world. _No, he’s gone into the furthest wilds. Perhaps the Red Waste, or even Sothoryos. Maybe he’ll nest up with a she-wyvern._ He remembered going into the darkness to set his brothers free. Well, his genius plan to get a wight and thus acquire Cersei’s aid had backfired tremendously. Viserion had died and Cersei planned only to betray them at the soonest opportunity. As far as Rhaegal, the luckiest three shots in the history of projectile weaponry had finished what the Army of the Dead had started. Now the black dragon was the only one of his kind left in the world. _That’s one thing you and I have in common, old boy- and what an awful thought._

**Davos**

He dreamed of fire. Flames burned wherever he looked, and they were everyone and strangers all at once. Gods, the world is burning. He stumbled away from a collapsing building, trying to get out of reach of the fires, but they were truly everywhere. He started awake, sopping with sweat- and realized he was in the cool darkness of a bedroom at White Harbor. Marya lay beside him, murmuring but undisturbed. Davos rose, slowly went to the privy and returned all the wine White Harbor had lent him. He tried to forget the flames, fire had taken everything from him. His son, the daughter he’d never had, and even the paradise he felt sure was days away. They had just missed it, he knew. So close…but close wasn’t the thing itself. There would be no Snow Prince, no eggs. He could remember it as if it were yesterday. The three of them, he the dwarf and the eunuch, watching the two from Winterfell’s walls. _Go on, lad. Right here, right in front of everyone. I saw how you looked at her the day you met on Dragonstone._ At the time Davos was trying to get the titles the Naathi was spouting off straight in his head- and Jon Snow just gazed at the woman on the stone throne before him. While the other two blabbed about things not lasting, he’d have given the rest of his shortened hand to see Jon get onto a knee in that snowy yard. Instead, the chance had come and gone- like the pair themselves. _Gods be good, Davos Seaworth- who HAVEN’T you failed?_

When they left White Harbor, Lord Wyman promised to send a raven to Winterfell to inform Sansa Stark that they were on the way. The morning was bloody cold, but then that was the north for you. The sight of the seven of them trotting through snowy forests and over cold hills made Davos want to laugh and weep all at once. _This is all that’s left,_ he thought. _A smuggler and his wife, a blacksmith and his lady, a warrior whose people had left him alone in the world, a dwarf, and a freedman from the East who’d never been out of sight of Meereen before._ Trees sprung up as if from thin air, and finally Davos found the scent of pine chasing away the last vestiges of smoke from his nostrils. Gendry and his she-wolf were in animated conversation, Zhaffar and Malakko were talking in as much Common Tounge as they each could manage- pointing at the falling snow, the sight of sixty-foot pines hiding them from prying eyes. 

“This is good place. Colder than any hell, but without dead men trying to chew your balls off, this wolf land is good place.” Malakko commented loudly, trying to break the silence of the others. 

“It’d be better with more than just us heading back home.“ Arya Stark replied, her garron huffing nervously. Davos turned to see the dwarf fast asleep at the reins of his horse, the animal merely keeping stride with its fellows. _Finally, and no muttering,_ Davos thought. A bit of thoughtless bliss was just what the dwarf needed. Suddenly, Arya’s garron harrumphed loudly and stopped moving, the other horses nervously following suit. _Oh hells,_ Davos thought. _What now?_

**Arya**

She smelled it before the others, but she didn’t want to alarm them. When they reached it, deep breaths and muttered curses were the songs sung by all. Several deer (or what was left of them) like in a blasted twenty-pace patch of smoking heath.

“Drogon is near. I can smell meat cooking.” she said, vaulting off her horse as the others looked at one another nervously. _You killed him,_ she thought. _Had I a scorpion of my own, I’d send a bolt sailing through one of your scarlet eyes._ She had an idea then. _I am no less a Stark than Bran or Robb. Let’s see if I can follow in their footsteps._ She went out, out of herself- a terrifying rush as she surged outward, into anything nearby. Compared to the last embers of life among the party, Drogon would be easy to find as green on grass. A large owl was what she ended up in, and when she took to the sky, she could see the black dragon sailing toward Winterfell, still out of sight- but undoubtedly his destination. When she returned to her own body, her nose was bleeding and the men were beside themselves, jabbering on about losing a Stark. “Shut up, I’m fine. Well, not fine- but I found him. He’s heading for Winterfell…very slowly, for a dragon.” she sat up.

“Is he-” Tyrion began. Arya shook her head.

“He’s not all there. Just getting away from the death like the rest of us.” Davos and Tyrion looked at each other with incredulous faces.

“Well, it can’t hurt to have him close instead of gods-know-where doing gods-know-what…” Zhaffar finally said weakly.

“Why shouldn’t he come back to Winterfell?” she said quietly. They all stared at her, the same stupid gormless look on their faces. “Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor, stands to reason she’d blow the rest of King’s Landing if she thought she’d lose. Rhaegal got caught in it with Jon and Daenerys. So what if Drogon beats us home? He’s got nowhere else and neither do we. As long as we stick to the truth, he’ll be no less welcome than any other of the Queen’s party.” she explained patiently. Recognition dawned on their faces. 

“Yes. Yes, yes. Good. He made it out and this is the first we know of it.” Tyrion nodded fervently, always eager to arrive at a swift solution palatable to all parties.

“Yes, fantastic- but who’s going to mind him? The world is out of Targaryens, and that’s good and fact this time.” Gendry said.

“Who cares?” Arya replied. “We’re taking this a toe at a time. It’s better Drogon is near, all can agree. Find the silver in the broth. Get back on your horses, we need to get home.”

The outline of the castle sent a surge of homesickness through Arya. There would be no more Jon to make it home, though. Only Sansa, and the empty pot of wildfire she had heaved on the future before it could _be_ the future. The very thought of her made Arya feel sick. Red Tully hair, blue Tully eyes, that perfect pouty southern face… _she has no wolf,_ Arya thought. _She’s not a Stark._ She told Tyrion in twenty minutes what Father held onto for twenty years. The urge to vomit took her then, but she shoved it down with a few deep breaths. The sun began to dip as they neared the castle proper- and as she knew she would, Arya caught a glimpse of red hair on the gate parapet. She heard Tyrion give a soft exhale of relief. _What do you care, Lannister? Going to pluck her out of danger and whisk her away to the Rock to have your golden dwarf babies?_ No wonder Sansa had told him. Give her a chance to get “my Lady’d” and she’d snap it up as if it were a lemoncake. She didn’t look up when the time came to pass through the gate. She could feel eyes on her, on them, and not just Sansa’s. Brienne of Tarth, Jon’s fierce red-bearded wildling chief, the fat sack Jon claimed to be a friend and his insipid paramour. The gate opened, and more than a few curses flew. As soon as Arya realized what she was staring at, she slowly got off her horse and approached the huge gray direwolf. Nymeria, sister to Ghost… who lay listlessly, unmoving and uncaring, in a corner of the yard. _He knows Jon is dead,_ Arya realized. Far from the pack leader she had been when Arya had seen her last, Nymeria was alone. She must have left the others in the riverlands- but why would she come here now? She gently ran a hand up Nymeria’s shoulder. The she-wolf growled, eyes digging into Arya’s, before her tongue slid over her mistress’ hand.

“You’re home.” she whispered.

**Sansa**

It had been a trying few weeks. First, the army had left at the insistence of the Dragon Queen despite it being in absolutely no condition to fight. Rhaegal’s wounds had not yet ceased to bleed! But the throne, always the _throne._ Sansa was sorely tempted to ask Daenerys simply to linger at Winterfell for the winter- Cersei would run out of food and booty to pay her mercenaries in no great time. Jon had been of stunningly little help, and the whole lot of them were playing right into Cersei’s hands, heading south already exhausted from the battle with the dead. Sansa had a bad feeling from the start- if it was truly the Long Night, it would have surely lasted longer than a single dusk to dawn. More would have, _should_ have been thrown at them than a parade of corpses. If the Night King had not had a mount of his own, Drogon and Rhaegal would have quickly tidied up his ‘army’ and the living could simply have surrounded him. To make matters worse, the black dragon had returned without his mother, which was enough to make everyone nervous. Finally, Tormund had returned, Ghost in tow. Immediately, she knew. Ghost had none of his normal bearing- simply slumping into the snow in the yard, not budging even to greet his sister, who yipped and yelped for him to rise the morning she‘d arrived. _Jon is dead,_ she thought. The idea made her feel terribly cold- who would hold Winterfell, head their house now? Bran was broken, and more distant every day, and the Free Folk had no great love for the False Flame, as they were rumored to call her in their cups. They had loved Jon, and he them. That’s why they followed him into the Battle of the Bastards, a fight that was not theirs. The giant, the last of his kind so far as anybody knew, he’d followed Jon for the same reason. Sansa looked at her hands- at the warm fur lined with leather, and the flawless skin she knew lay beneath the gloves. The cold grew worse. _I felt this way after Father died,_ she realized. _After Mother and Robb died._ She had expected casualties… but when she saw the scope of the survivors, it was all she could do not to weep in front of the whole of Winterfell. She could hear the mutters and confused chatter of the lords and sundry- heading down to the gate, she found herself walking past Arya and Nymeria and up to Tyrion. “What happened?” she asked as quietly as she dared.

Cersei had not lied that night, when Stannis attacked the landing three lifetimes ago. She had never had any intention of surrendering- or being taken alive. When Tyrion told her that Cersei had lined nearly every street with wildfire, Sansa gave a sudden gasp, and the tears began to flow. He took her hand then, and called for a barrel. Once she was seated, it took a good moment to compose herself before she turned to the lords.

“It seems that in the effort to rid the realm of Cersei Lannister’s tyranny, we failed to realize just how far she’d go to keep the throne. She waited until the last minute…and set off wildfire caches around the city.” she said shakily, the murmurs becoming cries and shouts now. “She managed to end both House Stark in the male line, and House Targaryen for good.” Ashen faces, looks of dismay- she could see Jon’s bookish friend Tarly trying not to loose tears of his own. Tormund stepped up to Davos’ side and eventually Arya let Nymeria go and had her sniff Gendry. People began to listlessly shuffle about the yard, from nowhere to nowhere. “If you’d join me in the godswood tonight, my lords, perhaps a short memorial to the King in the North…and to the Dragon Queen.” Sansa told the arrivals. Had Daenerys managed it? Had she managed to lay a hand on the chair, even sit in it…before the floor of the Red Keep exploded upward and took the Iron throne with it? Or was she with Jon when it happened, perhaps discussing the best way to take the Keep- or even distributing food to the commoners living in the city? She made her way to her room, staggering once no one could see her- toppling face first onto the bed, giving a sob.

**Tyrion**

He thought watching the debacle unfold in person was hard enough. The disaster and the aftermath, Queen of the Ashes and all. Watching Sansa’s face when he told her that the future of the country had gone up in a green flash a mile high hit him harder even than when he had to tell her about the Red Wedding. _Oh, fuck…_ he thought, breaking up as her big blue eyes widened and widened, lip quivering, perfect tears falling from her face. He took her hands in his to steady her, then let her make her announcement to the castle proper. Once she’d gone, he simply slumped against the castle wall into a sitting position, sniffling to himself- no one much cared about the Lord of Casterly Rock’s feelings, so they let him stew as Arya was seen to by Maester Wolkan. Suddenly, a shadow covered him. Looking up, Tyrion saw the tearful face of Ser Brienne of Tarth.

“Dead.” he said dully. “When we…well, they realized what was going on…they tried to flood the sewers and streets to cut off the spread of the wildfire. Jaime went into the tunnels and didn’t come back out. Jon and Daenerys tried to coordinate, but by then…woosh.” His lips blew in a popping sound. His fingers found the bridge of his nose. “So far as I can tell, we lost Clegane, too. Also, just about all the Unsullied, the remaining Dothraki, the Queen’s Naathi mouth…I say, if this is victory, I don’t feel very victorious.” he said, about to laugh- and then he began to bawl. She reached for him then, picking him up silently. He knew he was easy to carry as a babe, how humiliated he would have been in normal circumstances, but actually watching a Dawn Age go up in black dragon flame and green wildfire had taken all empty pride from Tyrion Lannister. He cried, harder even than when he’d learned as a boy that all the dragons were dead- even the small ones. This time, they really were all dead, save for one last black shadow. Dimly, he could recall his boy self resolving to have a wyvern instead- and of course, then learning from books that wyverns were as intractable as they were stupid.

She sat him on a bed, and held him until the tears stopped.

“I know you loved him.” he said then, making her release him in a start. “He loved you, too. Whatever he said to you the night he left…” he shook his head. “Horseshit, all of it. He just wanted to help Their Graces take the Landing without loss of life…” he gave a hysterical squawk- so what did it matter if he lied, anything to dull the pain. Brienne’s lip quivered. “Before he went in after them… he told me what was going through that beautiful idiot mind of his. ‘I’m Kingsguard. I belong with the King and the Queen’, he told me. He also told me that he was not hateful- you had changed that in him. He just didn’t want you to follow him to death. I suppose he knew that it was the end for him, succeed or fail. He’d want you to find someone better than he. Someone honorable and gentle and all the rest of that shit little girls dream of. As Jaime was wont to say-” she interrupted him then.

“There are no men like me. Only me.” Tyrion nodded, smiling ruefully. He leaned forward until his head was almost between his knees. “Oh, gods, what are we going to do now, Ser Brienne? What in the world are we going to do now?” Suddenly, his stomach roiled- and up came all the wine he’d taken on the road. Rather than recoil, Ser Brienne rubbed his back with surprisingly gentle hands, for all their strength. _Jaime would have loved her hands_ , he had no doubt. It was some time before she spoke- she waited for the small sobs and additional wine to come up before answering.

“I would think…Ser Jaime would want us to continue as best we can. I pledged myself to Lady Sansa, so here I will remain until she decides on another course of action.” she said finally. Tyrion gave a sharp humorless guffaw. 

“Well, that’s quite the choice. Go south and rot trying to sort out that ungodly disaster surrounded by enemies, or stay here and drink ourselves to death.“ He punctuated with another cup of wine- he’d taken to carrying a flagon of it wherever he could. “There are worse ways to die than at the bottom of a cup of wine, Ser Brienne. Their Graces could swear to that.”

**Arya**

It occurred to her that she should get a few words in with the Imp, try and see just what kind of lord Sansa schemed to catch. Led by the smell of wine-vomit (she’d learned to tell the difference between wines, ales, and other drinks from living in the alleys of Braavos) she stepped into the room Tyrion Lannister and Brienne of Tarth had taken refuge in. Ever the polite knight, the big woman nodded respectfully.

“If I could have a moment alone with Tyrion?” Arya asked, looking up at her sister’s protector. Again, Brienne nodded and stepped out, though she looked a bit unsure. Arya closed the door behind her and jammed it shut with a chair.

“Hmm. Either you’re going to kill me, or we’re about to have a conversation I would really rather not have.” Tyrion said mildly, looking at the ceiling.

“Did you tell him to do it?” she asked quietly, her big gray eyes boring into him fast as a scorpion bolt. Tyrion looked at her then.

“Tell who to do what?” he asked in what he hoped was a confused tone if anyone was listening. Arya knew what he was really saying.

“That wasn’t him. He could not have, he would never. Not even then, in that moment…and especially never to her.”” she said, barely a whisper. The Imp’s gaze never faltered.

“The day before we reached the capital, I would have said the same of her. She could not have, would never- and yet, she did.” Arya squinted her eyes shut, trying not to think about what she’d seen.

“Since we’re talking about your siblings, might I ask who else knows?” she leaned forward. Tyrion pointed to her, and then himself. “Good. That’s how it will stay. Now that that’s taken care of, how long did it take for Sansa to come prancing over to you like a maid who saw the princess and poor boy kissing in the stables?” Her gray eyes hardened.

“You needn’t blame her-” Tyrion began, but Arya cut him off.

“I’ll blame who I please, _Lannister._ She swore before a heart tree. As a lady, as a northerner, as a Stark- and immediately came to you, eager to sing for the nearest lion she could. You’re a southron- you aren’t expected to know any better, act any better, _BE_ any better. No wonder you’re so fond of her- she may have my mother’s face, but she has your sister’s heart. If you were any kind of man, you’d pull a leaf from Jon’s book.”

She walked over and sat down next to him. She could feel the dwarf’s wariness, even fear, but didn’t care.

“I met your father once.” she remembered suddenly- her venom turning to water in an instant. Tyrion’s jaw dropped open. “When he was in Harrenhal. I was pretending to be a common boy, but he saw through it- the boy part at least. He liked that I was smart, and so he made me his cupbearer.” “He never knew you were a Stark.” It wasn’t a question. Arya could hear the dwarf’s hunger. _What was it like?_ The unspoken question. _To be liked by Tywin Lannister?_ “It wasn’t always easy. I had to dance around looking directly at Littlefinger during a dinner. As if that weren’t enough, he’d asked me who my father was… told me I reminded him of his daughter. I can’t think of one woman Eddard Stark would want his daughter to remind someone of less.” she said, feeling cold. Tyrion raised his eyebrows.b“Yes, even including _her._ ” she parried the dwarf’s wordless comment.

“What else did Lord Tywin talk with you about?” he asked softly.

“How I could read so well. One night, he was going on about his legacy, and how Harren the Black’s was a blasted ruin.” “Aegon on Balerion the Black Dread.” Tyrion said, in a voice Arya knew once yearned to know all there was of dragons- and now with a living one not a hundred feet from them, could not want to know less. “It wasn’t just Aegon.” Arya said, rolling her eyes. _They always forget the women._ _Even the she-dragons’ names aren’t as remembered,_ she thought. “Rhaenys and Visenya too- on Meraxes and Vhagar. Meraxes died during the Dornish War, but Visenya lived long after the Conquest. She had a Valyrian steel sword-”

“-Dark Sister. I’ve done a bit of reading myself.” Tyrion finished for her. Arya turned to look at him.

“What went wrong this time?” she asked then. “The last time dragons came to Westeros, they made seven kingdoms one. This time all they managed to do was get killed or wither away.”

“Aegon’s dragons were a deal bigger than Daenerys’, Arya. Balerion himself was born in Valyria- he learned how to fly, how to hunt, how to fight from watching older dragons, and Vhagar and Meraxes and their broods learned from watching him. Daenerys’ three had no true guidance in their hatchling days. Against war-trained flying mounts, they would not have lasted long, undisciplined as they were.” he explained.

“Three dragons for three riders.” Arya said. “Aye.” “I never saw the third one, the cream-and-gold, in life. Rhaegal burned the body before I could get a look at it.”

“Viserion? He was a bit of an oddball. Lacked Drogon’s might and Rhaegal’s cunning, but seemed a deal more comfortable around men than his brothers, content with flying over them instead of going after them.” 

“I wonder who’d have gotten him in the end if not for the Night King.” she mused aloud. Tyrion’s mouth opened, but no sound came out as his brain registered what she’d said.

**Davos**

Zhaffar Toliz seemed to be doing the best (relatively speaking) of the survivors of the destruction of King’s Landing. 

“Well, not counting the bloody fucking dragon, but of us men.” Davos murmured to himself the next day, wandering the corridors of the castle they’d defended from the Army of the Dead- only they had been reduced to a few staggered survivors. When Davos asked him what his plan going forward was, he shrugged.

“Mhysa, as we called her in the East…her whole life was spent trying to reach the Sunset Kingdom. Now that I’m here, I have no wish to leave it. My family died in the fighting over Slaver’s Bay, and I have no ship to take me back to Meereen anyway. I suppose I’ll be the first Meereenese to die within Winterfell’s walls.” he said, looking around. “At least you have your wife. She cares for you, old smuggler, and deeply.” he smiled sadly.

“Aye, and I’m as thankful for her as I am for what wits and sight I have left in my doddering dotage.” Davos replied, exhaling slowly. “I’m not so different from you otherwise though- we have- we _had_ a son years back. Name of Matthos. Bright boy, destined for better things than his father.” he explained.

“How did he die?” Zhaffar asked gently.

“Oh, how a great many Westerosi seem to these days. Fighting for someone or other’s claim to the Iron Throne.” Davos said before making up a fire in one of the Great Hall’s hearths. “Damn wood won’t take. I swear, it’s getting harder and harder to keep a half-decent fire going. You’d think with a dragon around, fire would be the least of our worries.” he cursed, poking and prodding as ash flew everywhere. “Gods, why won’t-” his foot raked against the table leg, and he could hear his cup tip over. “Oh gods, not the ale…” He quickly got up- and both smuggler and Meereneese watched in dawning confusion, then wariness, as the ale seemed to seep out of the cup, slow as molasses, before slipping off the table edge, plopping down to the floor as if it were melting ice instead of the free liquid it was. “What the fuck?” Davos asked, looking in the cup. Across from him, Zhaffar’s pale knuckles shook so badly he dropped his cup- and it fell as if light as a feather, slowly descending like a cloud of ashes before shattering against the floor in what seemed to Davos like molasses-time. They could see pieces of the cup slowly arc over the floor before descending. He looked up confused as can be.

“Well, that’s not supposed to be happening.” Zhaffar said, eyes wide.

The pair warily looked outside, momentarily relieved to see snow falling- until they realized that it was falling slow. Not falling slow _ly_ , but falling _slow_. They could see Drogon in the yard, head turning warily from side to side- this new strangeness rousing him when food would not. The dragon’s great red eyes followed a flake as it landed on his nose, melting and running down his scales in clear silvery streaks. He snorted in irritation and confusion, his short temper rearing its head. _Oh no,_ Davos thought, as several men gathered near the dragon’s feet. Drogon snorted in alarm, drawing up as the men began to mutter. He made a noise like a horse’s harrumph crossed with a bird’s shriek, and a lance of black flame erupted from his nostrils- the sneeze scattering harmlessly off the soldiers’ bodies as they screamed in alarm- and then in surprise as they stared at each other, and the dragon at them.

“Well, fuck, boy, little late to show off THAT talent!” Davos cursed before he and Zhaffar ran to the yard. By the time they arrived, Drogon whas bathing everything he could reach in black flame- almost dazedly, the Onion Knight noticed. Flesh, stone, wood, iron, it made no difference. The flames simply ran across what they hit and went out. As Davos peered around in utter disbelief, he could see the snowflakes stop in midair. _Oh fuck, what now?_ he thought. _Not more of this magical madness. Can’t it be over?_ He heard the sound of wheels creaking and turned to see the crippled Brandon Stark (or the Three Eyed Crow or Raven or what have you) slowly approaching.

“I thought as much.” he said. “It seems that time has stopped.” His tone was almost bored.

“Alright…so what are we going to do about it?” Davos asked, leaning forward slightly, feeling just a bit on edge. After everything, and still they weren’t done? They’d managed to fuck with time itself?

“Well…everyone will notice in their own time.” Bran said, looking around slowly. “I didn’t think it would go this wrongly, but it seems things have expanded like ripples in a pond.” _Whatever in the name of the Seven THAT means,_ Davos thought. “How fortunate I’ve been given this opportunity.”

“That’s a funny word to use at a time like this. I haven’t felt fortunate since the bloody Blackwater.” Davos said, feeling particularly old in the moment.

“If you’d be so kind, Ser Davos, might you take me to the Godswood?” Bran’s voice broke him out of his daze.

**Sansa**

Once in the godswood, she couldn’t help breaking up again. She handled every bit of viciousness Joffrey and Ramsay had beaten into her, but this was different. It hadn’t been her that was hurt, but those she cared for. Arya, Bran, Jon, all lost to her forever, to hate, death, or the abyss that the sweet boy Sansa had known as a child had disappeared into. She made her way over to the pool, sinking to her kneee and staring into its dark depths. Her reflection stared right back, the only clear thing visible in the swirling water. _That’s always how it’s been, hasn’t it? You, your wants, and the rest of the world can burn down for all you care. A stupid girl with stupid dreams who never learns,_ she thought. A pair of grey eyes materialized over her reflection’s shoulder. 

“Stop your sniffling. The others are on their way, and I won’t have them see a Stark crying in our godswood.” Arya said flatly from behind her. When Sansa straightened up, she found herself staring into the heart tree’s eyes. _I’m so tired of being the weak Stark, she thought. The stupid Stark, the selfish Stark, the naïve Stark, the hollow Stark. I can be more than this, I know. I can be more than Cersei’s hateful smiles and Littlefinger’s empty words. Lady may be gone, but I can still help the Pack. Sound the Call, and I will come._ The thought of what had been when last she was here with her siblings came to her then. _What good are your words, Sansa Stark? To lie before a heart tree is to turn your back on the Pack, on the gods- what worth can you possibly have now?_ Well, none, as far as Arya was concerned. If, _when,_ word got out to the other northern survivors about what she’d done… The sound of footsteps made her dry her eyes and stand. Turning, she saw the other survivors, even Ghost and Nymeria, enter one or two at a time- and realized that the snow that had been falling had slowed to a halt in the air. Some of them seemed to be seeing it for the first time, but Ser Davos, the Meerenese and Bran weren’t so enchanted- or alarmed when the dragon‘s shadow fell over them, the great beast landing somewhat clumsily so as not to knock any of the trees down. Once they had all gathered, Bran wheeled to the center of their little circle.

“So…just what is going on?” Samwell Tarly asked, as if to open the ‘council’ as it was.

“As far as I can tell, time’s stopped- and that’s quite the thing to happen after all we’ve been through.” Ser Davos said shakily. Tyrion, the man who protected Sansa when she was a prisoner of his family in King‘s Landing, gave a polite cough. “It isn’t just time around us- I was in the middle of a piss, and all of a sudden it stopped. At first I thought I’d finally lost my favorite finger to frostbite, but then I realized I simply no longer had to go!” his face was very pale, and Sansa had to work hard not to giggle at his antics, despite the mood. Tormund, the red-haired wildling who’d been at Jon’s ascent to King in the North, nodded.

“An hour ago, I could have eaten a whole roast chicken. Now I feel as though I’ll never need to eat again.” There was a muttering of agreement on this score- suddenly, Sansa got an idea.

“Lord Tarly, if you could run around us in a circle a few times?” she asked politely. Everyone stared at her, some with incredulity, Arya with anger. Always, Arya with anger.

“Uhm…uh…pardon me, my lady?” he asked, as if unsure what he’d just heard. 

“Just a few times, no more would be necessary. Or anyone, really.” she kept her face straight and pleasant. The lone Dothraki seemed the most confused.

“Fat man cannot run, so Malakko will do it.” he said, shrugging- as if acceding to the situation that anything resembling normality had come to an end. He took off, deft as a deer- and he proceeded to dash about the godswood without so much as a needy pant for almost ten minutes while the group burst out talking all at once. When he returned not even winded, his face was pale (as a Dothraki’s could be anyway) and his eyes were wide. “But for the poison water, Malakko could run back to the Dothraki Sea without stopping.” he reported, a deal less confident than before.

“It seems we are affected as well, my lords. We do not hunger, thirst, or tire. It isn’t just the world, but we ourselves who are also stopped in time.” Sansa concluded. The weight of her words sunk into the group.

“This is going to be a _long_ eternity.” Gendry Baratheon finally said, sitting on the ground. Tarly’s paramour looked down at her belly uncertainly. 

“So this is all that’s left to fix the world, then?” The sharpness of Bran’s voice made Sansa look at him in surprise- as it made everyone else.

**The Three-Eyed Raven**

He looked at them for a long while.

“When I was still among the Children of the Forest, as you call them, I heard many songs. Histories of people dead a thousand years and more. I saw the striking of the Pact, and the beginnings of House Reed, when white Northmen and green Northmen became a single people. This time you live in is no less a song, but for those singing it- and anyone can tell you a song ends when the singers say it ends.” Arya Stark looked at him with her ever-icy gray gaze.

“What more is there to do? We stopped the Long Night, ended the war in the south, for now, and look where it’s got us. We’re all that’s left of the greatest army ever assembled since the Doom of Valyria, and for an extra penny, we managed to stop time.” He looked at her with his stoic, glassy gaze, the fire in her eyes rising. “ _SAY_ something!” she screamed at him then, everyone else very quiet. 

“You stopped the Night. Did you bring the Dawn?” he asked quietly. He could see see Brienne of Tarth’s face fall, still deep in grief over the man who had put him where he sat. Expressions went from confusion and ignorance to solemnity or else heavy sorrow. “You won the war in the south. Do you feel like victors?” he looked at them all. “You made it here, to me. As I’m sure you’ve all come to realize by now, life is not victory and death is not defeat. You are capable of stopping the Long Night, but something you cannot do, can never do, is bring the Dawn. Not by yourselves. Not without Ice and Fire.” They looked at each other, fear creeping into their faces like weeds into a rose garden. 

“Bran, they’re dead.” Sansa said gently.

“Yes, and here we are. You needed them to help stop the Night- did it never occur to you that _they_ would need _your_ help to bring the Dawn? Not jockeying for an iron bauble, not worrying about who gets what or who wronged whom? And here we are. No more ice. No more fire. No more nothing.” The snowflakes faded from sight as the chilly Northern air receded. The living furnace that was the Queen’s pet, curled up nearby, receded as well. Not the heating of cold or the cooling of hot, but the ceasing to be of both. “A world without Ice and Fire is a world without the Dawn.” he pointed. As one, they followed his finger skyward and watched as the sky turned black. Not the darkness of natural night, but the blackness of night eternal.

The confusion on their faces turned to fear and the fear turned to dismay as the stars receded beyond sight and the sun sunk below the battlements of Winterfell. One by one, the lights went out. They’d not brought a bag of potatoes, let alone the Dawn.

“So we’re fucked, is what you’re saying?” Tyrion Lannister’s voice cut through the somber mood.

“There is nothing that can be done.” The Three-Eyed Raven replied, as the castle walls vanished into the slowly advancing blackness. “Well…shit.” Gendry opined, as Arya wrapped her arms around him. Sansa slowly turned to Tyrion.

“I’m sorry I caused all this.” she said, voice steeled but eyes full of tears. He looked at her.

“You didn’t tell Varys. The blame is mine.” he replied.

“Regardless of who fucked up, or how much they did, it looks like we’re going to have the chance to explain to Their Graces very soon.” Davos said, watching the black tide advance with his wife at his side.

“In this much, you may be right- but not how you think.” the Raven said. “This isn’t the felling of a tree, but the falling of a leaf. A poorly-written book shelved in favor of a better one.”

“What?” someone cried.

“Brandon…what are you saying?” Sansa asked, quiet as a mouse.

“I’m not Brandon. I’m the Three-Eyed Raven, and my story is coming to an end.” he said calmly. “You are not alone in failure. You had secrets better kept- and I had secrets better told.” The blackness crept closer. “Be warned- the world you go to is not the world you are leaving. Powers besides myself desire you to have this chance, but they will have their boons as well.” He held out a hand. “Quickly now.” he said, in a voice that might have once intoned urgency. No one moved.

“A leaf…” Tyrion sounded almost drunk. “Are you saying this isn’t real?” he got on a knee before Bran’s chair.

“Say rather, it isn’t truth. True to what could be, perhaps, but not true to what should be, for certain.” Sansa got onto a knee herself, near enough the dwarf to be side by side.

“So…this is what may be, not what must be?” Her voice was full of wonder, even as the darkness deepened.

“ _This isn’t real?!?!”_ Tyrion asked again, almost hysterical. Behind them both, the anger finally receded from Arya’s eyes.

“But…I don’t understand. Why show us this, why take us here?” Brienne of Tarth asked, seemingly in shock as Tormund Giantsbane took a last look at them all before shutting his eyes tight and gritting his teeth. 

“To know true despair is to love hope all the more. To touch the light…one must pass beneath the shadow.”

Sansa took a deep breath, looking at his offered hand. She slowly reached for it, took it, and a sliver of light wound itself around her own. Tyrion’s eyes went wide at the sight.

“What the hell…” he said, putting his own on top of theirs- a strand of light connecting him to them. One by one, the others joined them, no one wanting to be the last. The wolves joined them, each massive head laid in the Three-eyed Raven‘s lap. Finally, Drogon‘s great wings curled over them.

“You cannot fail,” he said, “now that you know what failure means. Fear not what you’re running from, instead hope for what you’re running towards.” With that, they vanished, leaving him alone to face the coming darkness. “What have you done?” an old man’s voice said. The Raven in the chair turned to see his predecessor standing by the heart tree- and his countless predecessors gathered around them both. Men and women, his own race and Children both.

“They are not strong enough to do what you sent them back to do. They are flesh and blood, mortal, weak. The latest in a chain of follies, mistakes made generations in turn, as you saw.”

“They will succeed.” the younger Raven replied. “ _We_ are the chain of follies, the chain that must be broken, the mistake.” At this, the other Ravens‘ faces became ones of disbelief, fear, anger, or shock.

“Without us, the world has no memory, no past.” the older Raven said, trembling.

“What good is the past if there is no future?” the younger Raven replied, calm as still water. “We have bound the present to the past long enough. Echoes of the dead sounding from trees are nothing compared to the laughter of those still to be born of living flesh Northern flesh, southern flesh…Valyrian flesh. As the first Raven brought the first Dawn, I, the last, have sown the seeds to bring the second.” Dimly, the part of him still Bran Stark knew his words fell on deaf ears. They were spirit, and he was flesh. They feared being forgotten, for in memory was their only way of remaining alive. They could not recall the warm touch of a lover, the laughter of a child born to them, the sun’s rays on their faces. Immortality had frozen them in time as well, but permanently. “Yes, it will be so hard for them.” he said. “Yes, they are mortal, and many will fall before the coming storm.” he said, as he felt the darkness creep up his dead legs. “But they will succeed, and we must trust them to.” he calmly leaned back as the darkness swept away his body. “Our story is over. Theirs does not have to be.”

**King in the North**

“You can’t expect knights of the Vale to fight alongside wildling invaders!” Suddenly, Sansa was in the Great Hall with Northmen, Valemen and wildlings. Her breath caught in her chest as she took in those around her. Lyanna Mormont. Ned Umber. Alys Karstark. _All dead,_ she thought. _Is this heaven, then?_ But no, in the corner there, she saw him- the smirking face of Petyr Baelish. He hadn’t smirked when Arya cut his throat. Slowly she realized what she was seeing. _This is when Jon…_ she froze at the thought of her brother, at the feeling of a warm body next to her. Taking shaky breaths, she turned her head, and saw him looking back at her, confused as ever. She couldn’t think. She wanted to fly at him, wrap him in a hug, make sure he was really there, she- there was a sound of someone being slapped on the back.

“We didn’t invade, we were invited.” The sound of Tormund Giantsbane’s voice made her tear her eyes from Jon. She looked at the wildling chieftain, who seemed at just as much a loss for words as she. He was panting hard, as if he’d just run miles. His men muttered to themselves. Down the bench, she could see the Onion Knight, Davos Seaworth staring in disbelief at Jon. _Not heaven…_ she thought as if drunk. _He sent us back._ But who? From where? In moments, Sansa Stark shook her head as if to rid herself of a bad dream. 

“Not by us.” Lord Galbart Glover complained. The river of blood between the Northmen and Free Folk was both deep and wide. Sansa didn’t like his implication. That Jon had no right to bring wildlings into the proper North.

“A raven has come from the Citadel, my lord. An albino raven. The maesters have confirmed that winter is here.” Jon spoke, and his voice made Sansa want to weep, for some reason. As if it had been so long since she’d heard it. 

“The Boltons are gone, Jon Snow, the war is over. No southern army will get past the Neck, King’s Landing is an overflowing chamber pot that isn’t our problem anymore.” Lord Wyman Manderly offered, leaning heavily on Lord Glover. “With winter here, we’ll need to prepare our own holdfasts. The longest, coldest one in years, everyone says so. We have enough problems without a sea of wildlings flowing into our lands.” _The war is over? No, that’s wrong,_ Sansa thought. But why? She’d seen Ramsay torn to pieces by the same black hound that now lay obediently at her feet.

Jon Snow heard all the noise the lords made and only rubbed his brow.

“Tormund Giantsbane, if you could kindly stand a moment.” he said, the hall quieting as the Free Folk’s interim leader slowly stood, looking around before he refocused on Jon- appearing for once, quite lost for words. “Everyone have a look. Tormund Giantsbane, wildling, as you call him. Free Folk, he calls himself. He might be dressed in fur instead of leather, might be hairier than all the rest of us combined, or gingerier than all but one…” he teasingly tapped Sansa on the shoulder. “…but he’s no less human than you, Lord Glover. Or you, Lord Manderly. Look at Lago.” Jon pointed to the other end of the room- and Sansa, Tormund and Davos nearly jumped out of their skins when they realized what they were seeing. The grey-haired giant looked up when he heard his name. _That’s new…_ Sansa thought shakily. What had the Three-Eyed Raven said? _This is not the world we left…_ had more giants survived? “Meat. Bone. All he wants, all the giants want, is to exist. Not a goal incomprehensible to a right-thinking man. What’s coming isn’t human. What’s coming wants to take that right away from all that lives. Our enemy, our _REAL_ enemy, does not wait out the storm. They _ARE_ the storm.” The word hung in the air, unspoken but on every mind.

“They…they’re real, then?” Lyanna Mormont asked, eyes locked on Jon.

“As real as you or I, Bear Cub.” Sigorn, the Magnar of the Thenns said solemnly, sitting beside Alys Karstark. “They’re not wasting time debating who belongs where, either. They don’t fight each other, or undermine their brothers. They are coming, and coming as One.” Yohn Royce gulped.

“So…what shall we do? How can we fight them? Are they vulnerable?” Voices blended together as everyone started to talk at once. From the corner near Jon, Sansa spotted movement, and the Hall quieted as Ghost came into view, white as snow and more splendid than a tourney stallion. Jon ran a gloved hand down the direwolf’s side.

“The dead men they drive like so much battle fodder, we can kill with fire and steel.” Jon said thoughtfully, the hall hanging on his every word. “Those that drive them, they take dragonglass to kill.”

“I’ve heard maesters call it obsidian.” A Vale lordling called from the back.

“Call it what you want, but I know it kills Others.” Jon said forcefully. 

“Apparently there’s a whole mountain of it under Dragonstone. Stannis planned to mine as much of it as he could and ship it north for the fight against the frozen fuckers in case they made it past the Wall.” Davos Seaworth said, his voice a bit shaky in turn, but nodding to Jon. His eyes found Sansa, and she could see he was resolved.

“That’s all well and good…but who is to lead us?” Petyr Baelish’s whisper cut through the growing moment like a knife across a singer’s throat. Before he could say any more, Sansa stood.

She looked at Jon, head a whirl of half-remembered things and an utter sense of dread, as if they all teetered on the edge of the deepest chasm.

“Each Northern house swore an oath to House Stark when our lands were first settled.” she blurted out, finding her voice. She turned to Wyman Manderly. “Lord Wyman. Your family was driven from the Reach a thousand years ago. It was only by the grace of House Stark that they found a new home along the White Knife. When Jon Snow came to you, when the Pack sounded the Call, you did not come.” Wyman Manderly sat, chest heaving. “Lord Galbart. When Jon Snow came to you, when the Pack sounded the Call, you turned away.” Her blue eyes began to water. “House Bolton misled you both, and many other houses besides. They were catspaws of the South, of those who hold the Red Keep and sit the Iron Throne. That blood-drenched abbatoir, that awful chair the southrons love to piss and moan about. Only a Southerner would plant their arse in a chair made of _swords_.” she cursed. To her great surprise, both the Free Folk and the Northmen gave a great laugh at that. “I have seen both with my own eyes. My family, my _Pack_ was all but wiped out fighting over it, and we didn’t even want it in the first place- only to run free. They hem and haw like so many seagulls over a crabshell and then turn to us and call _us_ backward? Here’s what I say to anyone who sits the Iron Throne, who prays to glass and candles, who seeks to make us kneel.” she slapped her backside. Again, a cheer- with an undercurrent of raucousness this time. She clambered over the table as the lords murmured, standing in the center of the room. “There is only one man alive worthy to follow in my brother’s footsteps. Only one I mean to call King.” she turned to face Jon, who regarded her with wide eyes. “You are the White Wolf, the Unflayed, Giant-Friend and Bane of the Dead. I don’t care what your name is- you’re my King, and always will be. The King in the North.” _The Free Folk do not kneel,_ she remembered. _Then I’ll do something else._ She reached across the table, drew Longclaw from its scabbard, and touched it to the floor, point down. The room was silent. Then, there was the sound of wood scraping on stone.

“I imagine a lot of you are curious as to just how Jon Snow got out of his Night’s Watch vows. Well, to be certain, he didn’t. Those cunts stabbed him to death and left him to bleed in the snow. A little while later, and he was back on his feet, stringing those same cunts up like chickens in a butcher’s stall. I can’t think you much want that out there, but it needs be said.” he apologized to Jon. Back from the dead? Sansa thought…and stunned it didn’t sound more miraculous. As if it had happened before. The lords began to murmur in disbelief. With a look of deepest regret, Jon pulled off his cloak and everything under it, standing only in a pair of pants. Murmurs turned to gasps and cries of alarm as several cruel red scars over his chest and torso became immediately apparent. “I don’t know much of anything about life in the North, or what’s gone on between you and the Free Folk, but I know it’s got to come to an end. You’re all descended from the First Men, and so is Jon Snow. At least from this old smuggler’s eyes, there is no man alive more worthy to lead you tough old goats than he.” he drew his sword. “I saw you lying on a slab. Then I wrapped you in a blanket when back you came. Snow or Stark or whatever you are, you’re my King, and always will be. The King in the North.” He touched his sword to the floor, point down- and did not kneel. Alys Karstark watched Davos intently, before turning to Sigorn. She put her hand on his axe, and stood. 

“My father died under the flayed man because he wanted to protect his lands from wildlings.” She turned to Sigorn, who looked up at her. “You are not the monsters we’ve heard so many stories of. The blood of the First Men courses through you, same as us. You pray to heart trees, same as us. You hold guest right and oaths before the gods above all other things, same as us. We have more in common with you than we’ll ever have with anyone south of the Neck.” she looked to Jon. “All of us lost kin, lost friends, when the Boltons played their little game. You have avenged them. So far as House Karstark is concerned, they can keep the stinking south, and their crowned stags too.“ she looked from Ghost to Jon. “Be he beast or be he man, the White Wolf is the King in the North.” she touched the axe to the ground, head down- and did not kneel. Tormund watched all this, debating furiously with himself. _Is this what Mance would have wanted?_ he thought. Finally, he stood, and all eyes turned to him.

“The day I met Jon Snow was the day he was brought into Mance Rayder’s tent. When Mance asked him why he’d come, he said he wanted to fight for the living. There’s a Long Night coming, lads. Free Folk or Northman, we’ll need to stick together. I see your knees are finally starting to stiffen. That’s good. Once you spend enough time with us, you’ll never be kneelers again.” he turned to Jon. “I don’t reckon any man has ever been both King Beyond the Wall _and_ King in the North, but seems to me, Beyond the Wall _is_ the North, once all that ice is pushed aside. ” he touched his axe to the floor- and did not kneel. “…if you’re the man to bring us together, you’re the man to wear both crowns. The King in the North.” Silence. Then, the giant boomed loud as a rolling thunderclap. “KING IN THE NORTH!” A cheer went up, a wild, hopeful, joyful cheer. Swords were drawn, and not a bent knee in the room.

“The King in the North!”  
_“The King in the North!”_  
_**“THE KING IN THE NORTH!!!”**_

**Queen Across the Water**

The taste, the smell of sea air filled his lungs as suddenly as a punch in the face. He doubled over, coughing- and immediately clapped his hands to his eyes. _This is not fair,_ he thought. _This is cruel, even for the gods._ The wood beneath him swayed gently, and he could hear waves crash against the sides of the boat. _Oh Gods, please let me wake up._ He’d had this dream before, even before it had all gone so wrong. Back when he had hope, back when he had _her._ Drogon’s euphoric roar snapped him out of it, and he separated his fingers an inch. The black dragon careened toward his brothers, green irritated and white wary and _OH GODS, THEY’RE ALIVE…_ he felt a hand on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin. Looking up, he saw the bemused face of Varys looking down at him.

“You’ve been a deal closer to them without getting so jumpy.” he said crossly. His expression changed when he saw the look in the dwarf’s eyes. _Varys, as whole and untouched as…er, well, as I’ve known him,_ Tyrion thought. Then, _oh fuck me, oh fuck, oh GODS…_ he slowly turned, green eye and black scanning over the Greyjoy siblings in a sort of drunken wonder. He looked up to the bow, and had to try very hard not to scream. Missandei of Naath and Grey Worm were at her sides, paying him no mind…and Daenerys Targaryen was looking intently west, towards her homeland.

“Not what must be, just what may be….” Tyrion whispered. “What’s that, you say?” Varys asked, now concerned.

“What is it, my friend?” Tyrion frowned at Varys’ inquiry. What _was_ it? Why was he so broken up?

“I suppose it’s the view. I could die right now and be a happy man.” Tyrion Lannister choked out, trying not to sob. Varys followed his gaze. The three dragons soared above their mother, the greatest fleet ever assembled converging on the still-to-be-seen coast of Westeros. Trembling, he reached out and took Varys' hand in his, shaking like a foal learning to walk. “We will do it right, Varys. We can help her. We can save her from any dangers- and by so doing save ourselves.”

“Whatever it is you’re on about, I do hope you’ll tell me one day.” The eunuch sounded both touched and irritated. Finally as the sun set, a black line appeared on the horizon. “Dusk.” Varys observed. _Yes, but not for us, Tyrion thought. Dusk for fear, dusk for hate, dusk for ambition, dusk for all things Cersei. If it costs me my own life, for Daenerys Targaryen there will be only Dawn._


End file.
